


The Archivist

by TwistedSquid



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dark Mirror/Clone Rapes Victim, Do Not Archive, Dream Rape, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Noncon dream-invasion, Nonconathon Treat, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-05 23:44:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15181949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedSquid/pseuds/TwistedSquid
Summary: Jonathan Sims will be the Archivist.





	The Archivist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zai42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zai42/gifts).



“Why are you here?”

The words are thick and cloying on his tongue, laced with the electric tang he now knows all too well. The figure before him is cloaked in shadow, and yet somehow Jon know it’s a man. Or perhaps saying it once was a man would be more accurate. The shadows move with it as it slinks towards his desk. The tape recorder is already running. It’s always running now. It takes a seat.

The shadows fall away.

“I’m here to make a statement,” says the Archivist.

Jon looks and looks and can’t stop looking, and then—

“You look like shit.” 

Melanie drops a pile of statements onto his desk. Jon rubs his eyes. The effort to keep them open is herculean, but anything else would be unprofessional. And staying alert really is for the best, if it’s gotten so bad he’s seeing things. And he must have been seeing things, because there is no man in seat across from him. And if the tape recorder is running, well. That’s hardly surprising.

“Would you mind getting me a coffee?” A long shot, considering it’s Melanie, but he’s desperate, and his legs shake at the mere thought of moving. If he shut off the tape recorder he could move, but his hands are locked around the statements, pulling them towards him. He has to read them, and then he can turn off the tape recorder. It won’t take long, and the rhythm of words against his tongue is soothing. Familiar. But the coffee. Yes. He could use that as well.

“Get your own. Or get Martin to do it.” The door slams behind her with a sonorous clang. Jon wants to protest that he can’t get it himself, can’t ask Martin, because Jon can’t move and Martin is gone. Nothing to be done for it now. He’ll write her up later. He looks down at the statement. Looks up.

The door is gone. And waiting in the chair—

“Statement of the Archivist, regarding Jonathan Sims.”

His eyes trace a familiar scar curving along a cheekbone, and the grey threads of hair falling into dark eyes. The Archivist reaches out to him, plucking the papers from his hands and tossing them aside. 

“You won’t need those. Not while I’m here.”

Jon’s throat is shut as surely as the door, no sound issuing from it as the Archivist stands, and begins to walk around the desk. No, not walk. Glide, like an owl over a dark field, watching for its prey. Jon manages to swallow, opens his mouth to speak, and the Archivist shakes its head. 

“Listen.”

Jon can only nod. The Archivist is behind him now, a hand over his mouth. There’s a familiar hole in its sleeve, and its skin is whisper smooth. 

“I first met Jon some years back, when he came to the Institute as a researcher. Even then I could tell he was destined for great things.” An acrid taste floods his mouth as fingers push inside. His small noise of protest is cut off by unyielding pressure against his tongue. 

“I knew we belonged together. Even more so than my last love, Jon was mine. So I bode my time and as always my prize came to me, just as I had wanted.” The fingers are withdrawn, and Jon’s head yanked back. For some reason he expects the form looming over him to be distorted. Monstrous. Inhuman. But it’s just a man. It’s just him, staring back, and leaning down to press an almost gentle kiss onto his lips. Without thinking, he opens his mouth in response. It’s what it wants, and for a brief moment, it’s what he wants as well. 

But he never knew when to shut up.

“I know you want this as much as me,” the Archivist says, triumph murmured against cracked lips. “I know that you’ll give in.”

And Jon says, “No.”

The body behind him tenses. He wonders if now the Archivist will attack him, take control by force, meet resistance with violence. But though it withdraws, it is only to kiss the back of his neck, and tug him gently to his feet.

They face each other now, Jonathan Sims and the Archivist. In every way alike, except that as the Archivist leans in, Jon leans away. His every nerve is on fire, and he knows if he gives in he might yet find relief. Might reach a place like Elias, or Mike Crew, where he forgets people and remembers only power, and the unfathomable being that grants him a boon. 

Perhaps, someday, he will fall that far. But he’s always been damn stubborn. So as the Archivist reaches for the buttons his shirt, Jon tries to bat it away with weak and shaking hands, shivering as fingers trail down his chest. And when that fails he looks away while the Archivist sinks to its knees, and frees his cock from his pants. 

It cannot make him behold it. Not yet. 

But the tape recorder turns and turns, and Jon can’t quite stop his small gasp as the Archivist strokes a wet hand up his cock, bringing him to hardness. Some distant part of Jon can hear the wry statement someone else might make. Bit arrogant, isn’t it, getting off your clone? But whatever the Archivist may look like, it is not him, will not be him as long as he can endure. Even as it takes him into its mouth, hot tongue and wet lips enveloping his length, unbearable and ecstatic, Jon does not look. 

It takes him impossibly deep. Jon desperately desires escape, to shove it aside. To run. But his hands are curled around the edge of the desk like vices. And though his body strains against the warm, nicked wood, he cannot push it side. And he has always been curious. The Archivist has him trapped, with a hint of wicked teeth sending pleasure and pain up his veins in equal measure. He bites his lip and tastes blood, but it keeps him anchored. Blood is real. Blood is human. And it’s a different sort of pain. A clear physical link. Not the low aching desire of Beholding echoing in his chest.

Whatever he may want, he knows his body will betray him. He can feel it in the way his balls tighten, how his breath comes shorter, harsher. In the way the static clears, for a moment, and he can hear the words the Archivist is saying around his cock. No, not words. Commands.

Vigilo. Audio. Operior.

As that last syllable coalesces in his mind, he finds his will broken. He opens his eyes, and it’s not a monster crouched at this feet. There is nothing strange about it, the rumpled hair, collar slightly askew, and eyes gouging into him like the sharpened nib of a pen. It’s him. And as he spurts into its mouth, he wishes nothing more than that it looked like a monster.

And then it lets him go. 

He stands before Jon, and his eyes are oddly warm. He’s not smiling. But the hand on his shoulder is caring, if awkward. The sort of reassurance Jon himself might offer. He sags against the desk, and as he closes his eyes, he hears the words again. No. Not this. Never this, he can’t—

A bright, ceramic shattering, and Jon shove himself back from his desk. Sunlight peeks through his office window, and Martin stares with wild eyes. On the floor next to him is a broken mug, coffee pooled darkly around it. A dream, only a dream.

“I’m sorry, Martin. I haven’t been sleeping well. You startled me.” He reaches out, then pulls it back, fingers curling into a fist.

“It’s okay.” Martin eyes him warily. Jon, or the Archivist? But no, only a nightmare, a dark fancy brought about by too many statements and not enough time away from work. He crouches down to help Martin with the mug, and Martin gives him a careful smile. “Were you recording a statement when you fell asleep?”

The tape recorder is running. Jon ignores the way his breath catches in his chest, and stands on stiff legs.

“I must’ve been.” 

The button does not resist when he shuts it off.


End file.
